Life Ain't Always Beautiful
by jojospn
Summary: Inspired by the Gary Allen song of the same name and the final scene of "What Is and What Should Never Be." For Dean Winchester's birthday.


**A/N: Inspired by the final scene of "What Is and What Should Never Be". Title from a Gary Allen Song of the same name. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. For Dean Winchester's birthday.**

**Life Ain't Always Beautiful**

He always put on a brave face for Sam; had been doing it from the moment the kid was old enough to understand hurt and sadness. Every time their father walked out that door on his latest hunt, Dean would long to find a dark corner and let go. Not necessarily to indulge in tears, but to at least spend a few moments alone, free to allow the wall he had built around himself to break, if only for the few hours before dawn when Sam would be asleep, enjoying a rare night free of nightmares. Burdens from his young life would eventually be drowned in glass after glass of the hard stuff, whiskey usually, or sometimes tequila. But never enough to be completely drunk; because when Sam woke up the next morning, he should never have to see his older brother, looking like hell in the grip of a powerful hangover, popping Tylenol like candy and downing cup after cup of strong, black coffee in an effort to mask the sickness.

The day of their father's funeral, Dean had buried himself in work, pushing his brother away in his efforts to achieve some form of normalcy; and the tension had built, the pressure building up inside until it threatened to overcome him, erupting in fits of rage and emotion. And even that provided little comfort; shortly after John Winchester's death, Dean had smashed his own pride and joy, each slam with the heavy tool on the Impala's unfinished trunk releasing the pent up anger and frustration, the intense, overwhelming guilt he had felt the past few weeks channelled in that one iron device. He was dead; should have stayed dead. And because of him his father was gone, suffering eternal torment in Hell. How could he possibly live with that? How could anything be okay after knowing he was responsible? And when he had finished, the trunk of his beloved Chevy a dented mess, Dean couldn't even indulge in the comfort of tears, or a hug from his little brother. Instead, he had simply dropped his weapon, made his way inside Bobby's house, and drank himself into a stupor, for once not even caring that the ever watchful eyes of his brother and friend were on him, aware of his habits and worrying about his well being.

And so it continued, Dean's slow descent into despair, his brother trying desperately to reach out, to help carry that burden, on top of the one he, too, admitted he was shouldering. "I miss him, man," Sam had told him shortly afterwards, on the verge of tears. "And I feel guilty as hell. And I'm not all right. Not at all. But neither are you."

_Neither are you._ The words had echoed in Dean's brain, like a snippet of song that just won't leave. Sam was right. Dean was far from okay, and may not be for a while. That conversation had been shortly after their father's funeral, the well into spring, the months warming into a hot South Dakota summer. And now, it was winter. The early hours before dawn, January 24th, his birthday. His first since John Winchester's death. Sam lay asleep in his usual spot, the bed farthest from the door, but Dean couldn't succumb to sleep, no matter how he willed himself to. Eventually, he had given up, sitting up on his bed and leafing through his father's tattered journal in the dark, unable to read the passages but somehow feeling his father's presence regardless. The old leather felt worn, familiar, comforting between his fingers, and Dean gently brushed against the cover with a thumb. He brushed across the familiar ringed stain on the corner, a blatant reminder of that Christmas in 1991, where Sam had first learned the truth about the family business. The day that Dean's carefully planned attempts to protect his brother from hunting and monsters were thrown away like trash, any illusions that the boy would have a normal childhood vanishing like the breeze.

_But the struggles make you stronger. And the changes make you wise..._

A single tear gently plopped on the worn journal, and Dean absently brushed it away. He had heard the age old cliche hundreds of times: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. By that logic, he should have been the Incredible fucking Hulk by now. Sure, he put on the brave face for Sam; hell, sometimes he even enjoyed himself. But a good cheeseburger and a one night stand could only go so far. With a sigh, Dean closed his father's prized possession, clutching it as a devout man might grasp a Bible.

"_I think he wants us to pick up where he left off..."_

Dean remembered that night all too well. Sam, still grief stricken following Jessica's murder, had question their father's motives about the Winchester Family Business. Why should they waste so much time helping complete strangers when their father was still missing, perhaps dead? Why should others be the priority over family? And Dean's answer to his little brother had been prompt: to ensure that no other family had to deal with the shit he and Sam had endured; so that no one else would have to watch their mother burn on the ceiling, be thrust into a life of hunting monsters before even hitting puberty.

But was it really worth it? Why was it his job to save everyone?

Dean looked at the old clock radio at his bedside; the green, digital numbers read 3:45. The first rays of morning light on this, his 28th birthday, would soon seep in through dingy motel curtains. Dean closed his eyes, remembering the last birthday he had ever celebrated before his life had changed forever . His mother had baked the biggest chocolate cake he had ever seen, complete with sprinkles and one of those single digit candles, proudly displaying his age: four years old. They'd had homemade pizza for supper, and had spent the day doing his favourite things: a trip to the arcade and the firehouse (had even had his picture taken in the driver's seat; little did he know that in a few months those same men would be dousing the flames at his own home). Ice cream at the local Dairy Queen. And, of course, more gifts than he could ever imagine. It had been a perfect day, his parents' faces beaming at the sight of their son ripping open his presents and shovelling forkfuls of cake into his mouth. But the ones which haunted Dean the most were those of his mother, helping him blow out the candle on his cake or gently holding his hand as he helped him up inside the fire engine. Of her tucking him in that night with her usual lullaby of "Hey Jude" and her goodnight kiss and whispered promise: "angels are watching over you."

Birthdays since then had been heartbreaking and lonely for Dean. Of course, there were some that were truly awesome, like when he had been bequeathed the Impala the day he turned eighteen, or when Sam had planned a little event for his twentieth. Not much, just beers on the hood of the Impala and homemade burgers (with apple pie for dessert, of course). In fact the only ones he truly enjoyed were those he planned for Sam. He remembered his brother's first birthday, how his dad had almost refused to celebrate (understandable, but little Dean had refused to let his brother be denied the joys of a first birthday party). It had been nothing compared to what his own first had been, at least according to the stories his mother had shared with him, the morning of that fateful last birthday. But little Sammy had been so happy that day, eating his Spaghetti-Os and stale vanilla cupcake as if it were the best meal ever. And Dean had been happy to see his kid brother enjoying that first birthday without his mother. Shit, the kid had _never_ had a birthday with Mary Winchester at his side.

"Dean?"

The soft sound of his brother, stirring in the bed beside him, brought Dean back to reality. He set his father's journal on the nightstand beside him, quickly wiping any trace of tears before his emo brother could call him out on crying. Not that Sam would, of course. He was usually all for the sharing and caring.

"You up early," was Dean's gruff response.

"Good morning to you too." Sam yawned, turning on the bedside lamp. The dark room immediately was bathed in warm light, and Dean blinked, eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

"Look who's talking." The brothers were silent for a moment, Dean trying to act cool despite his depression. But Sam Winchester was no fool. He could always spot out when something was troubling his older brother. The kid had his own brotherly radar, and it was a pain in the ass, especially for one who wasn't particularly fond of showing his emotions. Sure enough, Sam sat on the edge of his bed, parallel to his brother. "What's up, man? You okay?"

"I'm fine." The usual Dean Winchester curt response.

"Yeah, and I'm Paris Hilton." Again, silence. Sam knew that it wouldn't be wise to push his brother, that he'd open up to him whenever he felt ready too. Sometimes, he was rewarded with a reply by more often than not, Dean would change the subject and move on, the incident past but definitely not forgotten. So he decided to test the waters with a joke, hoping the humour would ease some of the awkward tension: "Worried the girls won't be that into you know that you're pushing thirty, huh?"

No faint chuckle from the other bed, and Sam worried that maybe he had pushed a bit too far. But a moment later, Dean spoke, still not looking at his younger brother. "I'm tired, Sammy," he muttered, echoing the words he had told him back when he had thought the kid to be infected with the Croatoan virus. "I'm tired of this." He picked up the journal, eyed it with disgust before dropping it on his lap. "Why do we always sacrifice ourselves, huh? Why can't you go to school, get your fancy law degree? Marry Jess, settle down? Why do we have to spend our lives fucking hunting monsters? The goddamed family business?"

For a moment, Sam felt slightly awkward. Normally, the roles would have been reversed in this situation. Sam would have been the one to crumble, while his big brother stood nearby to pick up the pieces. After Jess had died, Dean had been his rock, his support, had helped him with the pain of losing the love of his life. But now, it was Sam's turn to be the strong one. And he wasn't sure that he knew how.

"Look, man," he finally spoke up, looking up at his grief stricken, road weary brother. "I know how shitty it can be sometimes. Hell, when you first picked me up from Stanford, I was a mess. When Jess died, I felt like a part of me died too. And yeah, I know how Dad felt now, even with all the crap we went through. But it's worth it. Dean, you've saved more people in one year than most do in a lifetime. You've saved _me_ god knows how many times. So yeah, I know that it can be tough. Life can suck pretty hard. But you know something? It can be pretty awesome too." Sam paused, patted his brother on the leg. They didn't say a word, and eventually the younger hunter got up for a coffee run. Dean watched him leave, the words he had spoken earlier still registering in his brain. "Thanks, Sammy," he smiled.

_Life ain't always beautiful, but it's a beautiful ride._


End file.
